


Where Do They All Belong?

by CeleryThesis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bill Weasley does not, F/M, HP: EWE, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleryThesis/pseuds/CeleryThesis
Summary: Ah, look at all the lonely people; look at these two in particular.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marriage1988](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marriage1988/gifts).



**Fleur**

**Lives in a Dream**

 

Fleur took her usual seat at the far corner of the large table. The rest of the delegation from the French Ministry sat around her although not with a wooden angle of table-corner pointing into their midsection. She was the lowest ranked member, often treated as a translator though her official title was Assistant to the Junior Minister. She was used her status. She declined tea or coffee and prepared her quill and parchment as the room filled with the rest of the committee.

They were in London for the quarterly gathering of the European Wizarding League. There were two days of meetings, culminating in a banquet that night, and then they would be traveling back to Paris in the morning. The whole operation took place in a very nice wizarding hotel in London not far from the ministry.

She had spent the day before in budget conferences; today was public policy, concluding this afternoon with medical ethics.

Hermione Granger was often there for this portion, but today’s topic was the sale of controlled substances, which didn’t fall under Hermione’s research specialty. Her colleague Severus Snape was there instead, looking as put out as ever in his black wool trousers, coat, and robe.

Fleur and Hermione had remained close friends over the five years since the war had ended. They didn’t speak often as both were busy in London and Paris respectively, but when they did catch up, it was as if they had never parted. Hermione had assured her she would be at that night’s banquet.

The chairperson called the meeting to order and agendas appeared before them. Only one person from the French delegation was uncomfortable with English although Fleur suspected that he just wanted to sit practically in her lap while she whispered the translation in his ear.

The primary item was memory-altering potions and whether they should be approved for treatment of stress disorders. The potions had fewer long-term consequences on the overall memory than obliviation charms could have, but they also had more immediate side-effects. There had been a push since the war to study Muggles that had been subjected to memory charms—a practice that had been approved with little thought before the war. Almost all the obliviated Muggles had been showing signs of dementia, and while wizards weren’t showing these results in the same numbers, there was an alarming rise in symptoms that made the medical community look elsewhere for relief of the epidemic of post trauma disorders.

The side-effects of the potions were low level euphoria with a crash of mild depression later, and although this could be problematic, the users were reporting a much higher degree of satisfaction with the product than the control group, who were either not being treated with memory therapy or were subject to charms.

Mr. Snape was arguing vociferously for continuing the research of the potions, while many of the other delegates were hesitant.

“We feel uncomfortable enough using these…heroes as subjects,” one minister from the British office was saying. “It just seems so…exploitive. Miss Granger isn’t here to weigh in from a veteran’s perspective. I move we table any further action until more thought can be given…”

“Miss Granger is fully on board with this study,” Mr. Snape began, contempt dripping from his voice. “And the reason she is not here today is that she was told her presence was not needed, which now seems suspect,” he thundered.

“Mr. Snape, you must know we only have the welfare of our veterans in mind…”

“Ask one! Madame Delacour-Weasley was a member of the Order of the Phoenix for years and is a veteran in the Battle of Hogwarts. Ask her what she thinks!”

All eyes fell on Fleur as she was mentally translating the phrase _Order of the Phoenix_ , a few words ahead, and she was thinking that she hadn’t translated that one before, and the French phrase she found wasn’t ideal. Translating was such a rote process that she didn’t take time to comprehend the words she was saying. She heard her own name leave her mouth and she stopped the translation mid-sentence.

“Madame?” the British minister turned to her.

Fleur looked at her delegation, who never treated her as if she was more than an unusually pretty woman who knew enough about British wizarding culture to be helpful.

“Mr. Snape,” she stammered a bit slightly self-conscious for just a moment about her accented English. “Mr. Snape,” she repeated as she was emerging from her fog, and she mentally smacked herself on the side of her head. She had fought alongside the Order, alongside aurors, and her late husband, and her brothers-in-law, who were some of the most highly decorated veterans of the war. She herself had been awarded the Order of Merlin. They _should_ be listening to her. “Mr. Snape is also a veteran, not just of battle but behind the lines as a spy. I trust his research implicitly. I’m surprised…frankly…that it is even a question.”

“Have you used the potion, Madame? Have you used obliviation?”

“I have not…sought these treatments, as for my case they would not have a desired effect. I would lose traumatic memories, yes, but I would also lose the final memories of my husband, which…” she had come so far from the first year after the war when it was hard to get out of bed in the morning, but she felt the tears welling behind her eyes and her voice start to falter.

“I was not suggesting that Madame Delacour-Weasley…” Mr. Snape began.

“Madame Weasley,” Fleur corrected him in a choked whisper.

He looked at her and softened his tone perceptibly. “I was not suggesting that Madame Weasley would be a test subject of this potion. I was calling on her perspective as a member of the ethics committee and as a veteran for her opinion of the _ethics_ of this research.”

“Yes, exactly,” Fleur said having quickly regained her composure as her annoyance at the minister grew. “My opinion as a veteran is that we have an obligation to those who sacrificed their health for the betterment of this society and for whom this treatment is the difference between manageable and…unmanageable stress—to continue this study.”

“The French Ministry stands behind Mr. Snape and Madame Weasley.” Her boss, who was two chairs down, spoke up.

Fleur quickly translated the previous few minutes for the wizard beside her. Several other delegations vocalized their support.

The committee voted to continue the research, and it wasn’t close. They proceeded through the remainder of the agenda and closed the meeting in the early afternoon.

Fleur was surrounded by wizards commending her testimony as she gathered her things. She had no time for this nonsense flattery that she knew was due more to her veela heritage than the merits of her words. The one person she did want to speak with was sweeping out of the door.

“Mr. Snape!” she called across the room, and the black robe lay still.

“Excuse me,” she said to her newly assembled entourage and excused herself with her bag flung across her shoulder.

“Mr. Snape,” she called again, and he turned toward her. She reached him and put a hand lightly on his arm. He noticeably flinched, and she removed it.

“Sorry. I just wanted to thank you…”

“No need.”

“There is. I…I am not often…consulted.” _Valued_ was the word she was thinking of, but she didn’t want to be overly dramatic. “My thoughts are not usually…required and I appreciated…”

“Perhaps you should find a job in which your contributions would be valued,” he said, and she was startled by the word and looked right into his eyes. They were as dark as any she had ever seen, but less harsh than she had remembered.

She hadn’t had a great deal of contact with Severus Snape during the war. He attended Order meetings less frequently than other members and almost never stayed for meals after. Often, his presence resulted in an uncomfortable internal battle between him and Sirius Black before the death of the latter. After Black’s death, Snape’s spying activity increased, and he rarely made it to Grimmauld Place.

Bill had held a rather minority pre-war opinion about Snape: that he was a tragic hero who maintained a façade of cruelty to hide his deep pain. This interpretation appealed to her romantic nature and was confirmed somewhat when Snape had transmitted his memories of Harry’s mum when Snape was on the brink of death. He and the memories, of course, survived.

“Perhaps you are right. Anyway, I do appreciate you, Mr. Snape, and I hope I will see you at the dinner tonight?”

“I’m required to be there,” he said.

“Well, then, tonight it is. Au revoir for now.”

He looked at her a moment and then turned and exited.

The rest of the French delegation was also ready to leave. They had planned late lunch at a pub, but she begged off to go rest in the hotel room before the evening’s function. The room was small and dark and perfect for day sleeping, something she never would have noticed five years ago, but now was a premium in her life.

She shucked her robes and pulled on an old t-shirt of Bill’s that was huge on her but soft. She curled up in the bed and let her mind go to the sleep place. She and Bill were married and still living at Shell Cottage. They were expecting their second child any day. The first, a boy named Guillaume was three, lively but sweet and a perfect blend of his father’s red hair and her bright blue eyes and their ivory skin. Dream Fleur didn’t know on a conscious level, but the new baby was a girl, Gabrielle-Marie that they would call Little Molly or Little Gaby, depending on her personality. Dream Bill was right behind her in the bed, gently rubbing her stressed back as she cradled her extended belly, Guillaume was a thoughtful child that let his parents have plenty of rest.

She drifted off as she always did, practically being able to feel Bill’s hands, so warm and comforting. Then her subconscious would take over and the resulting dreams were almost never so lovely as her pre-sleep reverie. She would be in the battle again, or in the middle of an awful family dinner in which she couldn’t figure out why Bill wasn’t there, or in the last moments of his life when he sprang on top of her to protect her from the death eater’s curse that he bore the brunt of himself.

That afternoon in the little hotel room in London, she dreamed of Snape the spy, protecting her from Tom Riddle at an estate she didn’t recognize. Snape used his wit and cleverness to save her, outsmarting the dark lord.

Fleur woke to the chime of her wand. She was over-heated, disoriented, thirsty, and uncomfortable, as usual after a nap. She groped around for her wand and stumbled into the bathroom where she refilled her water glass and gulped it down. She looked a wreck and she had time, so she pulled off the sleep shirt and knickers and stepped into the shower, letting the water comfort her whole body. She had that pregnancy “memory” again, and realized she didn’t have a physical condition that would stress her body like that even though it felt so real.

She washed her long hair and used the lovely smelling hotel soap on her body. She had brought a set of semi-formal bright blue robes to wear to the party, but it seemed overwhelming just then, so she toned down the color and changed the style to drape over her curves rather than to hug them. She dried and set her silvery blonde hair into soft curls and applied some lip gloss and mascara before casting a notice-me-not glamour on herself. Hermione and the Weasleys would still recognize her, but she could walk through the venue without setting off veela alarms.

Her relationship with the Weasleys since Bill’s death wasn’t as easy as with Hermione. There was such a sadness between them, and there had never been a great deal in common with her in-laws although she had grown to love them, especially Arthur and the brothers, and Harry, who always seemed at least an honorary brother. Molly and Ginny were kind but distant, and Fleur didn’t push for more.

She stepped into silver high-heeled shoes and snapped her wand into a silver bag as she left her room. She walked the stairs into the lobby, and immediately saw Hermione in a black cocktail style robe-like garment with her hair piled on her head.

“‘Ermione!” she called, and her friend turned to see her with a broad grin on her face.

“Fleur! What have you done, I can hardly see that it’s you.”

“Notice-me-not. Should I turn it down?”

“A bit,” Hermione laughed and Fleur complied. “That’s much better! How was today? I saw Professor Snape, but he wouldn’t tell me much.”

“Professor?”

“Old habits, you know, and I think he rather likes it anyway.”

“Ah. Is the ‘orde here yet?”

“I haven’t seen them. Ron is going to be late; he had an afternoon match.”

Ron played quidditch professionally, and Fleur could never keep up with what team he was on because he was traded often. That he was gone a good two-thirds of the year seemed to make his relationship with Hermione quite perfect for both; they were crazy about each other but each annoyed the other when they spent more than a few days together. Neither were in any hurry to settle down, and Fleur suspected when one became ready, the relationship might not survive.

Hermione looped her arm around Fleur’s and they headed toward the ballroom. “The professor mentioned your help today. Those Ministry bastards.”

“I was happy to do it. Honestly, 'Ermione, it was the first meeting where I have ever felt useful.”

“You should move back here. The French delegation doesn’t appreciate you.”

“Maman needs me, and Gaby is getting married in the summer.” Fleur’s father had died the previous year, and she was currently living at home although she wasn’t sure how long she could stand it. “Perhaps after the wedding, though…”

“I’ll hold those feet to the fire—look there’s the crew.”

The Weasleys were taking up two big tables towards the back of the room. Arthur spotted them immediately.

“Ladies!” He loped over in his lumbering Arthur way, and Fleur bounded into his arms. He planted a smack on her cheek. “Missed you, dear girl.”

“You, too.”

Fleur was seated, as usual since Bill’s death, between Fred and George, who never brought their current love interests to family gathering as to save themselves and their paramours the scrutiny. Fleur viewed them as the brothers she had never had. Harry beamed at her as she sat, and Ginny managed a smile.

“Hello, dear,” Molly called across the table. “Hermione, when is Ronald supposed to arrive?”

“Eight-thirty at the earliest, after press and showers.”

“They won!” Harry had the quidditch scores called up and was scrolling through them in front of him with a flick of the wand.

“That’s good news,” Hermione said. Ron’s mood was dependent on the most current match.

The food and wine was dismal, and Fleur wished she had thought to order a cocktail before dinner so she wouldn’t have to rely on whatever pathetic excuse had filled her goblet. She was weary despite her nap and although she was keeping up with the twins’ banter, she was counting the moments before she could excuse herself.

Ron bounded in and practically tackled Hermione. He pulled her on his lap in her chair and retold the whole match from start to finish. Nobody mentioned that it sounded as if he had only been put in as keeper for a few moments when the starter thought he had something in his eye. Fleur smiled politely and looked longingly at the door.

Gazing towards the door, she saw Snape at a table nearby drinking what appeared to be fire whiskey and looking as miserable as she felt. He was wearing his usual head to toe black look, but the materials were finer than what he wore during the day. She caught his eye, and he stared at her blankly, so she turned down her glamour again and immediately saw a flicker of recognition. He raised his glass and eyebrow at her.

“Excuse me,” Fleur said to Fred and George, and rose from her seat to walk over to Snape’s table. Male eyes from the surrounding tables found her immediately, and she put her glamour up again before she met Snape half way.

“Too beautiful for the room?” he said with a sneer.

“Too veela,” she said.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Where do you order your drink?” she ignored his question.

He took her elbow lightly and walked them to an area in the corner with a small bar.

“Vodka tonic,” she said to the little elf pouring drinks. Snape put a coin on the bar. “Merci, Monsieur Snape.” He nodded slightly. “Would you like to join us as the Weasley table?”

“No.”

His bluntness made her laugh. “Well, then…”

“I’m leaving.”

“Finish your drink with me,” she pleaded, but lightly.

He led her by the elbow towards a door to the side of the foyer.

“Having to sit between those dunderheads while watching Weasley chew off Granger’s face cannot be good for the digestion.”

“I find British Ministry food is not good for digestion.”

“That as well,” he said, leading her through the door. It was early March, and he set a warming spell. There were upholstered chairs around a small cocktail table, and he pulled one out for her.

They sipped their drinks, and neither felt compelled to speak. When she finished, he snapped his fingers, and an elf appeared with another drink. She felt that it might be a good idea to say goodnight; she hadn’t eaten much that day, and her head was already feeling the effects of the vodka, but it was also making her feel more comfortable than she had since she had left her home.

“Thank you,’ she said and accepted the drink.

He held a fresh whiskey in one hand, and he was reclined in his chair with his legs crossed. He was looking off into the distance and not at her. She swallowed a mouthful and spoke up.

“My husband admired you.”

“I rather doubt it.”

“He did. He said your classes were fascinating.”

“Which is why he went into banking.”

“He is…he was good with numbers. Not just money. He was brilliant. He brewed all our potions at home.”

“The imbecilic streak in his family was inversely related to birth order.”

Fleur snorted.

“Is Charlie still in the East?”

“Yes, he comes home for Christmas and maybe a week in the summer.”

“How long have you been back in France?”

“I went back a year after the war. I couldn’t stay at the cottage by myself, and I found I couldn’t stay at the Burrow either…”

“I can imagine.”

“Fred and George offered me a room at their flat, but…”

“Yes.”

“Papa…my father died last year, so Maman likes having me home. When my sister leaves to get married, perhaps Maman will sell the house and go back to the south where she is from.”

“You will stay in Paris?”

“Or move back here. Or Maman may convince me to move with her.”

“But what do you want?”

_To live in the cottage with my husband and babies._

She didn’t answer and took a long drink. “'Ermione loves the work you do, you and she.”

“We put up with each other. Probably more of a challenge for her.”

“She thinks you are brilliant, Professor,” she tried out the title.

“Her standards of brilliance are low.”

She refused to play his self-depreciation game. “Do you live in town?”

“I have a house up north.”

“By yourself?”

He looked at her for a moment before he answered. “Quite.”

“You don’t want companionship?”

He had his hair pulled back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck with a small, black ribbon. She had never noticed, but he had lovely pale skin, and he no longer had the dark circles under his eyes that were ever present during the war. His nose was something to behold, but it was commanding, and with his bold chin, it gave his face a certain regal quality. His mouth was twisted, and before she could stop herself, she rose slightly from her chair, leaned over and kissed it. She quickly stood, hovering over him, let out a laugh, and slapped her hand against her mouth.

“Sorry!”

She had never seen him looked shocked. His mouth had popped open and he was staring at her as if trying to ascertain whether she had lost her mind. It was quite comical. She let out a loud laugh, a lustier laugh than she had produced in years. She reached for his hand and pulled him out of his chair. When he had stood to his full height, she reached to put her hands on either side of his face, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed him again on the mouth. She laughed again and then put her arms around his neck and put her head on his shoulder.

“Are you quite well, Madame Weasley?” he sputtered.

“No,” she said into his shoulders and her chest was shaking with sobs, starting from her core and making their way up through her head.

His arms had been by his sides, but she felt them coil around her, one around the small of her back, and one cradling her head at his shoulder.

“You don’t get lonely by yourself up north?” she sputtered out between sobs.

“I wouldn’t know any different.” he said.

“I am all the time, Professor.”

“Men trip over themselves to gawk at you.”

“I don’t want to be gawked,” she let him go and drained her drink. She dried her eyes with the back of her hands, feeling suddenly very foolish. “I do want to drink you under your chair, however, and I would like some decent wine.”

“There is a Muggle hotel up the street with a bar where you could drink me under a chair. You will probably still be gawked at.”

She put the full glamour up. “Not so,” she said and put her hand under his elbow.

He led her quickly through the lobby and out the door. He kept the warning spell up and transfigured their clothes slightly so no one would give them a second look. There was a valet at the hotel, but they ignored him and went straight to the bar inside. Snape grabbed a wine list. The place was not crowded, and a waiter was at their side in a moment.

“Bottle of…” Snape looked at Fleur.

“Bordeaux,” she pointed at a selection on the list.

“Very good, Mademoiselle, the waiter said.

“Madame,” corrected Snape and Fleur.

“And not that good,” she added, “But certainly the best on this list.”

Snape chuckled at this so she winked at him as the waiter left looking cowed.

“Do you know wine?” she asked him.

“I like wine.”

“You have been to Paris?”

“I have.”

“England is fine, but to eat and to drink here…”

“So I’ve heard.”

The waiter brought back the bottle with a little sniff and poured the two glasses without waiting for either to taste before he left.

“Poor little soul,” she said and tasted the Bordeaux. It was better than she expected.

“Should I order a basket of chips?”

“Yes! With the curry sauce. It is the only English food I miss.”

Snape strode to the bar to order and soon the waiter was back.

“Chips with your wine,” he sneered.

“Yes, thank you!” She dipped a hot, salty chip generously into the sauce. “Oh, Snape,” she moaned.

“That’s vile stuff, Madame Weasley. Vinegar is so much more civilized…”

“Put that bottle down! Don’t you dare…debase my lovely curry chips!” She finished that first glass and poured another. “And call me Fleur, Severus,” she said as the wine made her whole body warm and her head cottony.

“Yes, Madame.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, He dipped a chip into the sauce and offered it to her, so she ate it from his hand, licked her lips and stole another kiss from his salty, vinegary mouth. This time, instead of being shocked, he pulled her over and kissed her properly with his eyes closed and a little flick of his tongue over her lips.

“Professor!” she laughed.

“Severus,” he said and drank some more wine. The bottle was waning, and she emptied it with an equal amount in each glass. He raised his and clinked it against hers. In moments, the wine and chips were gone, and Snape was putting a few quid on the table. She could have drunk another bottle and shared another basket, but he was right. She had to travel in the morning, and overseas apparition was tricky enough with a clear head. In addition, she was half a glass of wine away from propositioning the man, and even in her current state, she knew she wasn’t ready for that. She pulled on her cloak and dropped her glamour to blatantly flirt with him.

He gawked at her just the right amount, and she nestled under his arm for the walk back to her hotel. When they were a few paces away, he pulled her into a little recess where the alley met the street and snogged her well and properly. She put her arms around his neck, stood on her toes, and opened her mouth. He met her tongue with his and pressed her body as close to his as he could before slowly backing away. She kissed him once more on the mouth.

“Thank you, Severus,” she said and squeezed his hand. “If you are lonely in the north, you can talk to me.”

He didn’t respond, but she could feel him watching her as she quickly entered the hotel.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  **Severus**

**No One Comes Near**

 

The owl delivered both cream-coloured envelopes, one to Granger’s station and one to his. Granger had slipped out to the loo, and he examined her envelope quickly. It had _Hermione J. Granger_ in large, black, calligraphed letters in the center and _Ronald B. Weasley_ in smaller letters below. Snape returned to his station and examined his own envelope. Only _Severus T. Snape_ was written on his. He immediately started analyzing the lack of guest options in his invitation. He was invited. He and another were not invited. Was it an oversite? Was he too unimportant to merit a date? Was he intended to be Fleur’s date?

He already knew the day, time, and place of the wedding, and he skimmed over the specifics of the card. There was an enclosure that listed options for accommodations. He was scrutinizing it with a furrowed brow when Granger returned to their shared work space.

“What’s this?” she asked. He refused to indulge questions that were easily answered with the slightest effort. He suspected the vast majority of the time, she was talking to herself anyway.

She saw the way the names were written on hers and snorted. “Fleur,” she said as if the other woman were a great card. She looked at him as she was breaking the wax seal. “Professor,” she said in a delighted tone. He again refused to play and shoved the whole thing in his pocket before returning to the small cauldron he had been working over before the owl arrived.

“Be nice to me, Snape, or I won’t tell you at which hotel the Weasleys register.”

He sneered into his cauldron. As if he couldn’t work that out on his own. The larger gaggle would be at the cheapest offering. Hermione and her parasite, wanting a bit of privacy, would opt for the mid-range. That left the expensive one for him, and while it pained his frugal soul, he would register for a room there today to avoid having being stuck with any of that lot at breakfast.

The fateful conference had been six weeks prior. The first time that Fleur kissed him, he had been sure that Granger had put her up to it. By the end of the evening, he no longer cared how it had happened.

Snape had earned his wariness. Prior to the dark lord’s return he had been practically celibate. He’d had two chance encounters, both at separate Quidditch World Cups. During the awful years, Riddle would subject him to bi-annual honey traps to test his loyalty. While they were always an insult to his intelligence, he couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate the attention. He gave away nothing and usually received a decent shag plus enough wanking material to hold him until the next clumsy operation.

After the war and after cheating death, he had been resolved to have a more satisfactory life. Not to settle down with a wife and kids necessarily, but at least to have a person with whom he could occasionally have an actual conversation or share a meal before retiring to bed.

It had all proved to be too much. There were interested parties, but they all seemed to be attracted to the accounts of him they read in the _Prophet_ or in Skeeter’s ridiculous book. He’d had a few first dates, fewer one night stands, and never any seconds.

Three years ago, after a particularly stressful fortnight at work, in which he and Granger had been in the office sixteen hours a day trying to complete their presentation on the ethics of veritas serum, he had made a clumsy pass at her and had thoroughly humiliated himself.

Granger had poured them each a whiskey after they had finally finished their conclusion. It was almost eleven, and the moon was pouring into their work space. A curl had escaped her chignon, and he had reached over to tuck it behind her ear and had looked into her eyes for just a moment before he started moving in closer, clearly intending to brush his mouth against hers.

She backed away a fraction and caught his hand in hers, straightening her arm and presenting a clear barrier between them so he could immediately register her declination.

“I love him,” she had said quietly, and he had slunk away, acutely embarrassed and furious with himself. A month of awkward tension followed, in which she went out of her way to be solicitous, and he pointedly ignored her. It had diffused after their supervisors had deemed their project a success. They had spent a celebratory night at a pub with the whole department. Three pints in she had approached him and poked him in the side with her elbow.

“Please can we stop? Please can we go back…”

“Yes,” he had said. He arrived at the lab early the next Monday morning and had her tea waiting, and that had been the end of it.

Since then, he had limited his conquests to his occasional business travel. He would find a Muggle pub or bar and find someone to share his bed. He used a fake name and backstory—literature professor from the north of England was not a stretch—and he never had any trouble finding a willing participant.

He finished the potion he was brewing and then added a drop to each of ten test strips he had laid on the counter top. This step required twelve hours of absorption and reaction, so he started preparing to leave for the day.

“Did you see the wedding is right after our Vienna trip?” Granger called out from across the room.

He had realized this weeks ago. Fleur talked about plans for the wedding frequently. He had heard all about the conflict between Gaby and Maman over colours and flowers and wine and guests and music. He had put the date on his calendar the first time she suggested she might like him to attend. He had already worked out the logistics in his head of how he would leave Vienna early Saturday morning in time to rest a bit in Paris and present himself as well as he could when he made it to the garden location of the wedding.

“Yes,” he said.

“Still going to go; I guess we must, but what a hassle.”

He sniffed in her direction and continued readying his departure.

“Good night, Granger,” he said as he hung up his work robe and grabbed his travel cloak.

“Night, Professor.” She didn’t look up from her own work.

He stopped by the canteen to pick up some soup and bread for dinner. He was a decent cook but did not enjoy leftovers, therefore cooking for himself was wasteful. He was low on supplies, so he apparated to the alley behind his neighborhood market. He quickly selected his milk, bread, eggs, apples, and biscuits, and picked the worst queue as always. He never knew when Fleur would floo him, but she hadn’t yesterday, so tonight was a good bet. When it was finally his turn, he paid quickly with cash and hurried home.

The house was still dreary and cold in mid-April. He couldn’t justify heating it when he was at work, no matter how lovely entering a warm house would be. He immediately lit the fire and made a quick trip to the loo before putting away his purchases and lighting the hob for his soup and tea. He had just poured the soup into a sauce pan and set the kettle, when his current favorite sound rang in from the sitting room.

“Booooooonjoooouuuuuuur!”

“Hello! I’ll be right there,” he called from the kitchen.

He took a moment to smooth his hair behind his ears and breathe in and out twice before he walked back to the sitting room.

There she was in the floo. She was obviously at a pub as he could see above her head and the back-ground noise was raucous. She had her glamour up high as well. It could dull her hair and eye colour and make her face rounder, but it couldn’t obscure the twinkle in her eye that had sustained him for the last six weeks.

“Severus!” she called out joyfully. This had not become old.

“Hello, Fleur. Where are you?”

“Just a pub with colleagues. I want to go home and sleep soon.”

“Rough day?”

“No, so boring. I have been…fantasizing about a nap since ten this morning. You?”

“It was fine. I received the invitation.”

“Yes! Maman said she was sending them today. How did it look?”

“Like a wedding invitation.”

She laughed, and it made him want to be accommodating. “It’s lovely, of course. You’ve seen them, I presume.”

“Eeeyes. And you will be there?” She smiled at him.

“Yes, I will be there.”

“Good! I finished the book; I will send it back in the morning.”

“No hurry.” Fleur had been astounded at the collection in his sitting room. He had been sending them to her regularly since, selecting topics she expressed an interest in, like contemporary Muggle history and nineteenth century English novels, wizarding and Muggle. In turn, she had sent him a bolt of fabric to recover his sofa that she felt would “just liven up the room a bit,” and of course she had been correct. She had also sent more wine than he could drink, and he had started a collection that he hoped to share someday.

Last week he had been walking through the village to a shop where his garden spade was being fixed after a failed reparo. It had been an especially brutal winter, and the wooden handle had split. On his way, he passed a woman with a little cart from which she was selling pieces of hand-made lace. They weren’t big enough to be at all useful; he wasn’t sure if any amount of lace was truly useful. There was one square with delicate flowers at the edges and such fine work that he had to hold it up and study it closer. It was exquisite. Before he realized what he was doing, he was pulling out his quid and paying the woman.

He had sent it to Paris immediately, and Fleur had almost come through the floo that evening in excitement.

“I have no idea what you should do with it,” he said, half-apologizing for the frivolous gift.

“I will just look at it, Severus. What else do you need with a beautiful thing?”

He saw it laid out on the little bureau by her bed the next time she flooed him from her childhood room where she was staying until she could figure out what her post Gaby wedding life would be.

He excused himself quickly so his soup wouldn’t boil over and grabbed a piece of bread, apple, and tea to round out his evening meal.

“Have you eaten?” he asked her.

“I nibbled here and there. Maman has a plate for me at home.”

“You should go before it’s ruined.”

“She will make me sit at the table and talk to her. I will stay until you finish your tea.”

He was still self-conscious to eat in front of her, but she was so comfortable with herself that it was rubbing off on him. He cut a slice of the out-of-season apple that he ate for health rather than flavor and took a bite.

“I would not have dinner without wine,” she remarked on his pathetic meal.

“I would not waste wine with this bit of unworthiness…”

“Why would you eat something unworthy?”

“Waste my time on Wednesday tea?” he retorted.

“Why would it be a waste? Do you enjoy it less because it is Wednesday? That is the time you need goodness even more.”

“I suppose. Is that why you flooed?”

“I would floo every night, but I am afraid you would put a block on the floo.” She smiled at him.

“It is more likely that I will reach into it and carry you back here,” he said, feeling rather bold.

“Please, Severus, you must!” she said and her laughter filled the whole space.

It was idle flirting, he knew. He didn’t have the nerve, and he doubted it was what she wanted anyway. Her grief was still just under her skin. It flared often and without warning. They would be talking about pets, and she would burst into tears because Bill had promised to find them a cat as soon as the war was over. They would be discussing the book she was reading, and she would segue into how heroic her husband had been.

Despite any evidence that this would ever be more than a friendship, he lived for their conversations and correspondence. He hadn’t looked forward to a date on his calendar more than he had the one currently circled since he had marked September 1, 1971 on his eleventh birthday, and then spent the next nine months anticipating that date more fondly than any expectant mother.

 

_Eight weeks later_

He took a public portkey from Vienna to Paris. He had hardly slept and felt it was the safest way to travel. Granger was having a lie-in and told him she would see him at the wedding. The wanker was in Sweden for a match but was expected to arrive before they cut the cake. Despite any interest in the subject, Snape had been informed of their whole itinerary. Granger had made him show her his wedding attire. She approved enthusiastically, which he pretended to dismiss, but which actually made him rather relieved. He felt it was a fine line between being the dungeon bat at the wedding and looking ridiculous in bright colour. He had settled for a dark grey, though not quite charcoal wool trousers and silk robe with a deep green waistcoat that would not clash with Fleur’s pink robes.

He had his formal wear in a garment bag at his shoulder, not wanting to ruin his suit in travel. He arrived at the small hotel just as it was time to check-in. It was lovely and whimsical and had clearly been the correct choice. A porter helped him to his room, which was small and airy with a beautiful bed and a tiny lav. It was all he needed, and he tipped the boy generously.

He lay down to rest for a few minutes and drifted off thinking about four o’clock. At two-thirty he roused himself and went down and ate a small bit at the café next door so he would not pass out and embarrass himself further. He returned to the room and took a shower, trying to hold on to the soap in trembling hands.

_It’s nothing. It’s nothing. If you hope it’s something, you will be disappointed. You will see her and speak to her and if that’s all, then it will be a happy day. Don’t wish for anything else._

He finished his shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He cast a drying spell on his hair and the then brushed it until it was shiny and secured it with a band and a new black ribbon. He dressed and then looked hesitatingly into the mirror. Horrifying, but his face was what it was.

He went back to the café and carefully sipped a glass of red wine until it was time to arrive at the wedding. He had decided he should plan to be there just before it was to start so he wouldn’t have to make conversation with the Weasleys, who he assumed would be the only people he really knew. He would wait until the dinner to approach Fleur.

He found the designated port key in the hotel lobby and traveled with several others in formal attire to outdoors venue. The weather was lovely, and charms had been set in place just in case. There were flowers covering everything and the descending sun was turning the sky every shade of pink.

_If nothing else this is the most beautiful day I have ever seen._

He sat on the bride’s side just in time for the quartet to begin playing. Madame Delacour, looking very much like her daughters and almost as young, walked down the aisle on the arm of an usher. Snape almost lost his breath, and he hadn’t even seen Fleur. A pair of bridesmaids were next. Fleur had told him they were Gaby’s mates from Beauxbatons.

Then she was there, practically floating down the aisle in pink. Her hair was piled on her head with a few tendrils by her ears. She was carrying a bunch of lilacs that spilled down the front of her dress. Her skin practically glowed in the light, and Snape realized he had never seen her without a trace of her glamour spell. He was unprepared for her beauty.

_It is not possible for her ever to want to be with me. How perfectly stupid I am._

She saw him just then. She had already been smiling, but her face broke in to a wide grin. He would doubt what he saw for the rest of the ceremony, but he would swear that for the briefest moment she puckered her mouth as if she were sending him a tiny kiss. He made sure his feet were planted on the ground so he wouldn’t sway.

Gaby appeared on her grandpere’s arm. She was gorgeous, of course, but Snape kept returning to the matron waiting at the altar. She, too, found his eyes throughout the ceremony, reacting to the words of the officiant or the little bee that was buzzing around her flowers.

Snape’s French was awful, but he understood enough to keep up with the proceedings. Gaby and the groom, Simon, stretched out their left hands, and the officiant wrapped a silver rope around their wrists. Fleur looked away sharply and sucked in air. Snape willed courage to her and felt emotion welling up in himself. He saw a steeled expression overstake her face, and she stood straighter. She found his eyes again and looked only at him until it was time for them to recess back up the aisle.

As soon as the party had finished their walk, the guests were instructed to find their place at the tables that immediately replaced the pews. He started wandering among them, fully expecting to be in the middle of the Weasleys when he felt a little hand on his back. He turned and found himself with an arm full of Fleur.

“Severus, you look so handsome! I couldn’t stop staring.”

“You look fine yourself,” he said, flooded with hope, damn it. The top of her head just reached his chin, and he wanted to tip her face up and kiss that little mouth, but he didn’t have the nerve. She took him by the hand.

“You are next to me up here. I hope that ees okay.”

“I think I will manage.”

“Are you ready to meet Maman? It will be quick, I promise.”

“Of course.”

Madame Delacour had an entourage around her, but she dismissed them when she saw her daughter approach with her escort.

“Maman, this is Severus.”

“Madame Delacour,” he said, and took the woman’s hand to his lips feeling entirely ridiculous.

“Monsieur Snape, it ees a pleasure,” she said although it didn’t sound as if it really were. “My daughter is enamoured with you,” she said dryly and clearly she found that incredulous.

“Maman, VRAIMENT!” Fleur sputtered and led him away. “I am sorry, Severus.”

He just laughed. It went better than he anticipated, and it was over at least for now. He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing cart and handed her one.

“Merci,” she said and gulped down half the glass before clinking it against his. “Come with me to the Weasleys?”

“If you must.”

They made the rounds. Granger looked lovely. The git hadn’t yet arrived, and she was drinking heavily, which was Snape’s favourite version of her. She was by far the most tolerable person to stand around with as Fleur worked the room, mercifully sparing him.

“She adores you, Professor,” Granger whispered to him.

“Nonsense. Did she say something to you?”

“Not in so many words, but it’s obvious in the way she looks at you.”

“Ridiculous.” He grabbed another passing drink and then silently warned himself to slow down.

The waiters served dinner, but Fleur hardly had a minute to sit and eat. Snape saved her some bread, which she put away quickly and slammed a glass of wine before she joined the bride and groom at the cake table. He found a place for them to hide so she could eat her cake in peace. She sat next to him on a little stone wall and relished a few bites before there was a new round of introductions prior to the dancing. She handed him her empty plate gratefully and planted a little kiss on his mouth before she had to run off again. He sat back down to steady himself and decided to stay hidden before he was press ganged into dancing with someone. He had a glass of wine he was sipping, and he had a partial view of the dance floor. Weasley had finally arrived and had pressed himself against Granger. Fleur was dancing—he hoped only dutifully—with every male in attendance. After about half an hour, she returned to take him by the hand and lead him to the dance floor.

He took her in a close hold and they swayed to a Muggle song from the 40s Snape was surprised to hear the band playing.

“Thank you so much for coming. I’m sorry I’ve had to be everywhere.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said into her hair.

"Are you registered at Le Ruisseau?" She tipped her head to look in his eyes.

“Yes.” 

“I thought you would choose that one. It is the nicest.” 

“How long do you have to stay?” It was as bold as he was capable of being.

 “Until Gaby and Simon leave. My aunt is staying with Maman; I don’t have to see her home. Are you asking me to come back with you to your hotel?”

 “Yes.” 

“Then I say yes, I would like that.” 

He held her tightly against him and tried not to ruin everything. He hadn’t slept with anyone in months. From what he knew of her, and he was confident in this assumption, she hadn’t been with anyone since her husband died. He was fairly certain this was going to be a disaster. Just then she lowered her hand from his back to his arse and pinched him as she rose and kissed him before she ran off.

 “I will help Gaby get ready, and then we will leave?” 

“Yes,” he said and tracked down another glass of wine. Fleur returned as soon as they had waved off the couple. She had a silver cloak and a little bag. 

“We can apparate from here. Is there anyone you need to speak to before we go?” 

“No,” he said and swept her beside him. They left in a pop and arrived at the door of the hotel. She took his hand, and he led her through the lobby to the stairs. His room was on the third floor, and there was not a lift. He felt winded and nervous, but she practically floated beside him. 

He opened the door with his wand. The staff had opened the windows so the breeze filled the room. The hotel was located a block from a Muggle section of the city, and there was a jazz band playing. The music wafted in. Fleur did a little spin, and he caught her and pressed his mouth on hers. He kissed her and caressed her head, using magic to coax her hair down. 

She pulled his robe off his shoulders and let it pool on the floor and then started slowly on the buttons on his waistcoat. He tried to slow down himself and match her pace. It would be very easy to take right then against the wall or on the bed. His cock had been in various stages of alertness all night, and it had been rock hard since their dance. Her hair was down, so he moved his hands, running his fingers down the back of her robe but making no moves to take it off. 

His waistcoat hit the floor, and she started in on the buttons of his dress shirt. Only then did he wandlessly remove her outer robe with a quiet incantation. She stepped back for a moment, leaving him with his shirt unbuttoned but still on and let her robe fall off her body. She had a thin silk dress that breezed over her full breasts and hips. She looked like Aphrodite with her long, silvery blonde hair down her back and her pale pink gown. He was speechless; he would have had his mouth agape except he exerted a bit of control over himself. She smirked and put one little strap down her shoulder and then the other. The dress stayed up because of her curves, so she pulled it down, keeping her eyes in the whole time. He couldn’t help but gasp as she continued. 

She stepped out of the garment. Her knickers and bra were pink as well, lacy and sheer. He removed his shirt and stepped back to her, enveloping her into him. He let his hand roam down her arse and palmed the back of her thigh, lifting it so her center was open to him. She wrapped her leg around him and gripped him tightly around the neck, moaning when her core abutted the top of his leg.

He made quick work of the three hooks at the back of her bra and removed it. He felt her breasts on his chest before he had seen them, and again he felt the need to slow himself before he lost control and ripped off her knickers. 

He turned and reached for his wand where he had set it upon entering the room. He could cast the charms without it, but he didn’t want to take any chances. She had mentioned that she’d had an unpleasant reaction to contraceptive potion in the past, and he knew they would have to rely on charms. He was used to using condoms as he hadn’t been with a witch in several years nor a Muggle woman long enough to trust her own birth control. 

He whispered the male incantation and tapped his left hipbone with his wand. He then sank to his knees, and she walked forward a few steps and touched his head. He kept his eyes on her belly for fear of becoming distracted and whispered the female incantation before swirling his wand on the little, feminine pooch that rested just above the waistband of her knickers. He removed his wand and kissed her right there on the belly. She joined him on her knees, and kissed him on the mouth. He finally allowed himself to turn his attention to her breasts. She leaned back to grant him access, and he ravished them, taking her pink, almost transparent nipples into his mouth one after another. She moaned and started fumbling with his placket.

He rose and swept her into his arms in one motion, laying her carefully on the bed with one arm, and removing his trousers with the other. She spread her legs with her knees up, and that was all the invitation he needed to remove her knickers and begin exploring her folds. She was wet and practically panting when he inserted a finger inside her while swirling her clitoris with another. 

“Now, Severus, right now. I need you so much. Please!” 

He couldn’t resist that. He quickly climbed up and positioned himself against her before pushing in with a long groan as he found her mouth with his. 

“Fleur,” he whispered and started moving slowly back and forth. She grabbed him by the arse and pushed him in in farther. 

“Fuck me,” she pleaded, and he obliged thrusting in and out harder than he had planned. It shouldn’t have surprised him. She didn’t have a timid bit about her. It made him feel wonderfully safe.  

He put his fingers in his mouth and then reached down to tend to her, determined to make her come before he exploded inside her. The effort gave him some relief: he had a project to focus on to divert him from losing control, as every cell in his body was screaming to do.  

She cheered him on, clearly instructing him just how she liked to be touched. He felt her rising toward orgasm right before she shoved his arse one last time, and he filled her completely. That was all he could stand. He came suddenly and groaned out her name as his whole body lit up and he lost touch with reality for moments. He presumed she came, too, but he wasn’t sure until he touched her again, and she flinched and then laughed. Her nipples were hard little cherry pits and he couldn’t resist biting one lightly, which made her growl. 

“Oh, Senapeh!” she said, extending his surname into three syllables. “That was soooooo… I needed that.” 

He had needed it, too, but it was so much more for him, and he was immediately paranoid that this had just been a fuck for her—something she needed to get over so she could emerge from the grief and carry on. He threw up his protective walls and began reaching for his trousers. 

“Where are you going?” she asked him incredulously, and when he turned back to her, his self-doubt instantly evaporated. Never in his life had anyone looked at him with love, but it was unmistakable. He settled back into the bed and took her into his arms where she fit as if she were designed that way. 

 

 _Seven Years Later_

 

It was five-thirty on a Wednesday in February, and Granger was moping around the office. He could tell she was angling for him to ask her to the pub so she could drink a pint and unload her troubles. She had broken up with the prat three weeks before. She was ready for marriage. He now managed a quidditch team and was still loving life on the road with no real commitment in town. She had given him an ultimatum, and he had declined. Then he changed his mind a week later, and all was wonderful. Then he had changed his mind again. Snape suspected he would be enduring this every day for the next six months. 

“Come for dinner Friday,” he said, impressed with his own compassion. He hit a stasis on his current brew and switched out his robe. “See you in the morning, Granger!” 

“You don’t always have to be so…”

He was too far away to hear the last word. He quickly walked to the apparition point and concentrated on the familiar journey home. He arrived in the same alley up the street from his house he had traveled to and from for years. The neighborhood cats were on to him, but no human ever had been. He could see the lights of his home in the distance, and he quickened his pace. The frost was everywhere. He took the steps two at a time until he was at his front door, whispering his way in. 

“Daddy!” shrieked Sabine, running full tilt for him. He scooped up his four-year-old daughter into his arms and kissed her dark curls.  

“Where is Maman?”

“In here,” called Fleur.  He walked into their cluttered sitting room. He could smell dinner was cooking, but his wife was sprawled out on the floor reading a book. Sabine had been colouring a chain of flowers her mother had cut for her. Their house was in its usual controlled chaotic state. The fire was ablaze, and he popped the cork on a bottle of wine before he sank into his chair.

Fleur rose from the floor and kissed him on the mouth before heading back to the kitchen. “Lost track of time, sorry,” she said. “Dinner is almost ready.” 

Sabine climbed on his lap to show him the flowers. She rattled off their names in English and French.  

Fleur had worked off and on before Sabine was born. She had a thousand ideas about everything, and Snape suspected that once their daughter went to school, Fleur would throw herself into some career. As of now, she worked at the Muggle community center in town three times a week helping Hattian refugees navigate their way around their new home—rather new to her as well, although one would never guess. That it helped Sabine learn French is how she explained her work, but Snape knew it was much more than that. 

He secured Sabine on his hip and grabbed the wine bottle before he joined Fleur in the kitchen. She was stirring a sauce pan of buttery, viscous liquid that he was sure would be gorgeous.  

Sabine scrambled to her feet, “I’m a big girl, Daddy,” she remembered just then and informed him in quite a tone. 

He stood very close to Fleur until she turned so he could kiss her properly.

“How ees ‘Ermione?”

“Her life is over. I invited her for dinner Friday.” 

“Hermione!” sang out Sabine. 

“That will be nice. Do you know any young men at the Ministry?” 

“None she wouldn’t kick in the arse.” 

“Arse!” sang out Sabine. 

“Merci,” Fleur said, rather sarcastically. 

“Sorry.” 

“I know plenty of young men at the center who would love…” 

“Oh you do? You know plenty of young men? Really?” Snape swept Fleur into his arms, dipped her dramatically low, and then kissed her to the delighted laugh of Sabine.

 


End file.
